


How Long Is Forever?

by maevestrom



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - After College/University, Drinking, F/F, Reunions, Sapphism, Sunsets, Unrequited Love, celebrity, dive bar, past friendships, singer - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21965377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maevestrom/pseuds/maevestrom
Summary: Maybe you'll see if your former best friend still sees the sunset a different way after years of your lives veering from where they were when you two left off.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	How Long Is Forever?

The sun sets on you and you watch. 

It’s just one night. One day. Thousands- no, tens of thousands- have gone by for you. Sometimes the sunset is barely visible from your room as you do anything you desire to turn your thoughts into the rare commodity of silence. Sometimes you see it from the skyline of whatever hotel room you stay in as your mind replays the songs you just sang, your throat raw in a mixture of content and discontent. Maybe the sun sets before you even do anything, the start of a night of nothing or everything. Maybe you fall asleep before it sets and wake up after it rises. Even if no two sunsets look the same, they can be categorized, often to a severely reductive number of types that fall into single digits, and the tens of thousands become five, with copies. 

You find yourself whistling a song called  _ Smoke Signals  _ as you watch this particular one. It’s not often that you look at the sun while it sets, but it makes you wonder if you’re the only one witnessing it. If others are in hotel rooms absently turning the lights on. If anyone else in the city streets sees their breath escape their mouths only to be smothered by the cold. If people are asleep now and will wake up when it’s too late to see. You know it’s only four-thirty, but anything can happen when the sun sets so early. 

You wonder if she can see it. 

You try not to think of her, because you definitely don’t feel that it’s relevant (or that you have the right), but you’re in town. You can’t help it.

When the sunset disappears, you let your thoughts drift away from her and you walk towards where you are staying. 

You haven’t been to this town in ages. You thought you’d miss it more. You don’t plan to stay, and you’re not sure why you visited. Your family lives in a vacation destination a hundred miles away- kind of befitting of how they always view life as a vacation- so it’s not like you  _ had  _ to visit the city in particular. It didn’t miss you. It didn’t know your name. Even as a famous singer, it still doesn’t recognize you as its child, even if for a short time during your college days.

You sort of hoped that it missed you a little. 

Ah, but you weren’t in a state where it could have missed you at all. You weren’t in a state where it could have known you enough to miss. Maybe when you left, it was as if you were never there.

Never, except for one place.

Or, more aptly, one person.

\---

You aren’t sure why you’re still out. It’s too dark to see anything worth your nostalgia, not that much is, given a lot of it was spent at college and living like a broke college student about seven years ago. Realistically, you’ll have to leave town tomorrow and head back to New York City to record- the next album is expected by the start of next year and you’re already in December, so you had to steal this vacation time in the first place. All two days of it. 

The one thing that they never tell you about fame is that you are constantly busy. The idea of fame is accompanied by ideas of wealth and therefore ideas of freedom, and yes,  _ maybe  _ you could stop and retire on the money you’ve earned but you’re not right now. You’re too busy justifying your existence. 

So you only have a short amount of time left in this city that represents a part of your life both significant and negligible, and you’re on public transportation like you’re reluctantly back home. 

You really shouldn’t be there. 

You just don’t like telling anyone what you’re doing until you do it, in case you don’t. 

The bus you are on is two decades old and has stairs, but you’re pretty sure it’s the right one. You pass by places that, in the dark, you don’t recognize but feel vaguely familiar. They’re shadows like you would like to be. You turn towards the electric display that feels ill-fitting on this old hunk of shit with stairs and a whiny engine, waiting for it to signal a familiar stop. Your hand is on the cord for the bell a little too eagerly. 

You don’t remember the name of the street until it comes up, then you ring the bell as if possessed. When the bus creaks to a stop, you nearly dive out of the back door. You’re not sure how you managed to stay inconspicuous- even dressed down, your cream mink trenchcoat should have set off alarms that you shouldn’t be there. Go figure that even your subtler pieces seem to demand that all eyes be on you during times that you’d rather all eyes do whatever they want. 

Still, walking across the street gives you a familiar feeling of safety and anonymity that, realistically, you should no longer feel. You don’t mind the sensation, however ersatz it may be. You haven’t been on this street since your college days- one surrounded by the occasional mom and pop shop and a barely-lit menagerie of trees. It’s just uphill, barely off the beaten path, which used to be an inconvenience when you were younger, but now gives you a subtle thrill of escape.

Even though you know you’ll be seen.

You think, for neither the first and last time, of how nice it would be if no one ever saw who you were right now again. You hope they wouldn't care. Singers come and go, so what’s one more? 

Oh well, though- right now, they can and will, so the show may as well go on.

You make it there and kick the snow off of your boots at the front door’s mat. It’s not locked, or else it would be a shitty bar. Though maybe it is a dive since it’s happy hour and maybe five people are patrons there and no one says hello. You wonder if their food has gotten any better since you left. Probably not, but honestly, you’re a little sick of caviar and silk right now.

Not that you’d tell anyone. You used to dream of just a taste of this sort of untouchable power. The type that says “you can’t afford me, so leave me alone”. A shell to protect you from anyone you wanted. You’re not exactly Beyonce or anything- just an indie darling and maybe a recognizable name if someone thought a little- but you’ve cultivated that visible-yet-anonymous power towards a lot of people, enough that you do not go to any sort of dive bar for the fuck of it.

But here you are, so you gotta say something. 

You feel like you’re luring someone into a trap when you take a photo of yourself- not an unfamiliar feeling, but generally one that’s too… predatorial. One that you wish wasn’t. One that seems accompanied by people hating you. Or at least they should. 

But it’s not like that. 

Or at least that’s what you insist to yourself.

You finish taking a good selfie of you, shoulder-length red hair and cream mink coat against a rough-cut maplewood countertop and metal stool with a tear in its cushions and post it on Instagram. Not your greatest selfie, but if there’s one thing that  _ finally  _ feels right, it’s how you look, so you are not very discerning and you only use a black-and-white filter. 

The caption reads “I think I overdressed” and you put the location in its place. 

You wonder how long it will be until she sees it.

\---

A little over an hour, you realize. 

There’s a little snow on her faux fur parka that she shakes off only after she enters when she throws her hood off in a herky-jerky motion. You two casually following each other online- the only time you two have done things casually- already told you that she, her freckles, her clunky glasses, and her short brown hair haven’t changed much since you knew each other. Her few Insta selfies are always with other people, a Rolodex of changing presences, making it easy to pick out who she is. 

Mynah never changing is how you’ve always remembered her. 

She doesn’t do stealth, though she’s always been stupidly obvious about many things. Just as well, in your opinion. There’s a comment on your lure (are you actually gonna call it that? Yep, guess so) that just says “whoa”. 

She hasn’t changed her own Insta name since you left, and the fondness of seeing it punches you in the gut. She always told you how much she loved her name. How much she loved yours too. How much she loved your stage name before you two could ever dream of her becoming famous. Before it was yours. Before it was you.

No one enters the door until she does and you’ve had to very slowly go through an order of mozzarella sticks while giving glares to the two dudes there who try to keep hitting on you. You might be unrecognized enough for them to think they can put their moves on you, but just as likely they’re some audacious motherfuckers who think that they have a chance in hell. 

Mynah is not the type to make a move. 

Hell, even when she enters and you’re one of the only people there in plain sight she doesn’t walk up to you and you have to play the old familiar game of pretending-nothing-is-up. Part of you wonders if she’s making a show of ignoring you, but she always used to be too shy for you in particular. You never understood why then, and even if now has a reason, you still don’t understand why she doesn’t run in and say hello. 

It makes you feel like too much for her.

You’re okay with feeling like too much for a lot of people, but with her… it’s always hurt. 

You pretend not to steal glances at her until she steals them back at you and you duck away, pretending to watch whatever TV they’ve set up like the news has ever done anything to grab your interest and not push it away. You take a breath and subtly clear your throat. You can’t say “I know you’re here. The ball’s in your court, Mynah. Make the first move.” Maybe you should, but you can’t. 

The throat-clearing seems to be enough, though. 

She doesn’t pretend that it was any sort of accident running into you. She meets your eyes and apologizes. Great. She still apologizes for nothing to you. It’s like you know a different Mynah. A Mynah that you love and resent at the same time. 

You love that she’s only soft towards you. You hate that she thinks that she has to be.

“Come on over,” is all you say. “It’s been too long.”

Because it has been, she does, sitting at the stool next to you. 

“Mynah,” you breathe. 

“Emm.”

She never calls you Emmeline in-person. Just saying “Emm” seems like it takes her breath away. 

“I didn’t know you were back in town until literally an hour or two ago,” she admits. With an awkward laugh: “It really blindsided me. I, uh-” She gestures to her beanpole body, adorned with decent snow pants, cranberry perfume, the blue fur-lined parka you first saw, and very light makeup. “I did my best, but… I really didn’t want to miss you.”

You smile. “Honestly, when I was here and saw you, I was afraid I was gonna miss you.”

She scratches her neck. “Yeah, I…” Signaling a bartender, she says “Hey, can I get a Jack and Coke?” It was her regular back in the day when she wanted to look cool and grown-up, even as she experienced a kick like she was shot at every sip. The bartender vaguely signals some form of acknowledgment and she thanks them. Looking back at you: “Yeah, it was… surreal. I wasn’t sure what to say. I mean…” Shyly waving with a goofy, self-effacing smile: “Hi, I guess.” 

Your smile turns into a teasing smirk. “You guess?” 

“Something like that.” 

You crack a laugh. It feels weird because you’re used to giving half-amused giggles that pass too well to people who are not paying attention. Mynah smiles a little too, but it’s sad in comparison to the cheery little victorious grins that she used to respond with, and you’re not sure why. 

You know you enjoy her being back. 

Even if it all feels like a dream. 

She follows your eyes to the television. Seeing it’s the news, she grimaces and turns away. You say “Still not big on the news?” 

“I know things suck,” she says, waving it off. “I don’t need a reminder.” 

You don’t tell her that you agree. You think it makes you look more mature to face the music that you don’t really face. You wonder when the last time you actually faced it was. 

She looks at her watch. “Fuck,” she says with a grimace. “Happy hour’s about to-” She waves down the same bartender, who is in the middle of making her drink and pays her no mind. She turns to you and says “They  _ still  _ haven’t hired a second bartender? Fuck me.”

“You’d know better than I,” you admit. 

She shrugs like any admission that you’re no longer here doesn’t hurt her in a way that it shouldn’t. “I mean, technically. But I don’t really go here anymore.”

“Aw, why?”

She stops to think, face slightly distressed as she thinks of an excuse. “I mean…” She shrugs. “It sucks. Duh. Total dive.”

The bartender turns their head but just shrugs like they know. You chuckle under your breath. It’s the truth, even if not the whole truth. She beams a little. She can’t help it. She’s been very fond of your laugh since the two of you met. She used to say that she likes making anyone laugh, but she only ever embarrassed herself with pride when you did. 

You can’t tell if she’s avoiding the subject or diving into it when she hastily asks “So what brings you back here?” 

“Visiting family back in Victoria.” 

She nods. “And the airport’s back here, right?”

You nod. “It is…”  _ And yet here I am,  _ you want to say. Instead, you point out “I think the airport is in the opposite direction of here, though.” 

She smiles. "I guess… just nostalgia, right?" 

You nod again. A smile chips at your face until it breaks out. Funny how vulnerable you feel being happy. "Yeah, I…" You don't have an explanation other than that. "I guess that was it." 

"You weren't here that long. Just through college." 

"True." You tease at what's left of your one mozzarella stick. "I just… figured, you know? I should…" Why is this so hard to say? "I should try and at least say hello to an old friend."

Her face fights with itself, a mixture of genuine flattery and hardened professionalism. It's like she told herself beforehand not to get affected by you and is losing that fight. "I appreciate that," she drawls. 

"I mean it," you insist.

"I know," she says dismissively. Before you can argue, the bartender sets her drink on the counter next to her. "Hey, thanks," she says. "Also, question: happy hour over?" 

The bartender thinks and shrugs. "Not enough to count. Did you want anything?" 

She smiles. "Nice, uhm. Just some, uh, chips and guac would be killer." 

The bartender nods. "Can do, can do." They leave shortly after. That's just how she likes it- less talking, more doing. 

She looks at you. "They're getting hella tipped." 

You coo like this is a special occasion and she wouldn't anyway. She takes a sip out of her drink, trying to hide a blush between puffed cheeks, her face half-buried in the cup like she's learning to breathe underwater. She doesn't react like she did when you were both young. She definitely can take her liquor now.

You're not sure _what_ to do with that information, but it _sure_ _is_ information.

After she finishes, she looks at you. You expect her to ask how long you're going to stay, which you don't want to answer. Instead, she says "Now that I, like, have you…" Her blush gets fiercer. "I just wanted to say that…" She gestures an orbit around your general person. "I knew you had it in you, you know? I always did. Ever since you, like, you'd sing _October Project_ or _Banks_ or, like, fuckin' _P!nk_ , which is I guess supposed to be basic but I don't really care because… like, you made it sound good, you know. When you were singing on the steps of the old college buildings before classes when we were bored as shit and it was cold outside. I remember thinking that, you know… you could do it if you wanted." 

You don't look at her. "Honestly, I didn't know I could. Like… you know me. I always wanted to go into medicine or something. I just couldn't…" You shrug. "Couldn't get anywhere. And I guess this all…" Gesturing around yourself. "It really worked out." 

Either that or you failed upwards.

You leave off the fact that you didn't want it at first. That you didn't want it more. That you aren't sure, even now, that you want it. "And I'm glad you thought so, you know?" you tell her before you think of the dreams that you gave up, how they're much humbler than this but somehow harder.

She looks a little concerned but hides it (badly). "I'm just very proud of you," she admits before taking another drink. You don't fill in the silence, so she finishes the drink and says "I figure that you could have guessed, though." 

"You've always been very proud of those you love." 

She looks at her drink. "I've been proud of them, yes. But… I think with you, it's…" It's quiet again. "I don't know.  _ More. _ " 

You finally take a chance.

"You've always been  _ more  _ towards me." 

"You've always deserved it."

"Thank you, Mynah-Bird." 

She beams at the nickname, but she looks like she's been shot. The first is instinct. You’re a tease. Have been since you two met. You always liked to see just how much you could rile her up. Make her cheerful. And you won't lie, just how good you were at making girls lose their shit a little. Yet she's never looked as… impacted, like one nickname may have made her realize something she was trying to forget.

Even though it's her Instagram handle.

"I missed you," she admits. 

"I missed you too," you coo. 

"No, really," she responds. "I know you're onto bigger and better things but, like…" She sighs, facing her drink. 

“I hear your music,” she tells you. She’s a little bitter, but she smiles and probably means it. You’re not used to someone being both sincere and conflicted towards you. “It’s hard to miss. And I thought it was great to know someone before they got famous and took off. That’s what I told myself when I heard you. I  _ knew  _ that person. But I  _ knew. Knew. Past tense. _ "

You want to respond _I'm here now, present tense_ but decide not to argue the point. The rebuttal is obvious.

"I know so many people in the past tense and that’s all I have so I try to forget because it just," With a choke and hiccup: "Just hurts too much. But it was different for you. I couldn’t escape that I once knew the best person that I knew and couldn't accept that it was in the past because I hear your music. Everywhere. And whether you want to admit it or not, you’re forever.” 

You don't respond. Mynah has a habit of bombing you with her thoughts all in one ramble. As highly as she thinks of you, she's never noticed that too many emotions at once dazes you. You want to comfort her, but when you're the one who hurt her, do you have the right? 

Fuck. You can't think in those terms. Younger you would. You're thirty-one. To act like you don't have the right is stupid. You just… don't find it a good idea, is all.

She downs her drink too quickly. “I just wasted five dollars," she complains. "I didn't taste shit." 

“You didn’t, because I’m paying.” You try to hide all of the flips your stomach is doing at her words. 

“No, I am,” she insists. “Because I plan to get very shitfaced tonight.”

“You don’t  _ get  _ shitfaced,” you point out. 

“You don’t know that!” She’s fierce in emotion like she already drank before getting here- there’s no way she did. Is there? “I used to not get so fuckin’ angry, but that’s out the window too.”

You want to point out that she did. She just never expressed it around you. Still, no point in making things worse when you're already playing from the bottom. You’re just not sure how to respond. 

"Hey," you try. You're still not. You just kind of want to hear her voice. Her talking about any old thing helps comfort you when you're anxious, though you can't remember the last time that you allowed yourself to panic. 

"Hey," she mumbles. She's drained of a lot of energy. The bartender takes her empty cup and she says "Uh, refill." With her nose to the counter: "Clearly not the best idea I've ever had. Look at me." She sighs, resigned like she knew this was going to happen. 

"Can you…" You're ginger when asking this. "Can you tell me about what you've been up to lately?" 

She shrugs. "It's boring as shit. You know, life goes on. After we finished college I made a lot of crap, you know. A lot of woodwork. A lot of little things. And that's kind of been how it is." 

"Is that all?" 

It's not. You two don't talk as much after you were sidetracked into fame but you still followed her. She does amazing work; she makes it sound like crafts, but she does crazy good outdoor work. Landscaping, barn raising, coop building, and community gardening construction. She's had a lot of shots of her with animals, people (some intimately close) and projects, each one like a medal of progress. It's… humble, but it's amazing, but it's the kind of life you kind of… really… wish you led.

"Yeah," she whispers.

The daydream dissipates. You feel bitterly disappointed to be back in reality.

\---

Mynah's always been in control of her faculties too tightly, so either she believes that she's shitfaced now or she's such a lightweight that two drinks could ruin her. Is it supposed to? Either way, she decides that she's going to the front patio to get some fresh air because she's too publicly intoxicated to walk about. No one would care, you figure. No one except her. 

It's snowing and you've covered the chips and guac in your pocket. She says they're for you both, but you still feel guilty every time you steal one from within your pocket. She doesn't eat any, hands on the railing, looking into the distance.

"Just…" She gestures in front of her. "So when do you gotta leave?" 

You crinkle your nose and hesitate to respond.

"Yeah. That… makes sense." 

Then she claps, flinching at herself more than you do. "I, uh, sorry I've been so moody and all." 

"It's okay," you offer. "It happens." 

"I shouldn't have come," she responds. "I should have left it on read and just… pretended I didn't know." 

You frown. "I'd…" The words say themselves, so you don't.

She sighs. "Yeah, I know. Bitch move, but… I knew what was coming and what I was gonna feel and I still…" She buries her head into her hands. "Goddamnit. I fell for it. Like I always do."

"I'd have missed you," you admit. That's too much for you to admit normally, so you sneak another chip. 

"Only now?" she barks. 

You roll your eyes. "Hey, I still feel things too, you know?" 

Mynah leans up. "I guess? I'm sure you do, but like, you sure don't ever say anything either." Turning towards you, she says "Do you think it makes you look better to not feel anything like me?" 

You step forward, a threatening growl in your stomach. "Is that what you think of me?" 

She throws her hands up. "I mean, dicks if I know, you know? You're so fucking secretive." 

"You don't know how I feel!" You shout back. You two rarely fight. Even when you seem angry, she relents with an apology and the subject dies, whatever it may be. "Mynah, seriously. You never asked. You never actually, like, tried to see how I felt, but you're sure taking yourself as an expert."

"I  _ never  _ did!" she yells. You've never heard her hit an octave that high. "I waited on you forever! I wasn't going to tell you how you felt!" 

"Or ask!"

"Well then why  _ don't _ you tell me how you felt?" She asks like a demand. "Because it's not like I wouldn't listen to you. And it's not like I didn't fill in the blanks. I was wondering this whole time, does it not matter? That I'm here? Am I just way closer to her than she is to me? Does she just think that I just waited for her? Does she think a night's enough?" 

She sighs. There are tears in her eyes and her breath hitches. "And I realized that… on some level… yeah. Because when you don't say anything, you know… my mind does. And it says what I think. So it's… I need that, Emm, I need to stop..." 

She turns away after seeing the hurt on your face. It's hurt for her more than you, but it's definitely for you both. "I'm sorry. I didn't expect this." 

You close your eyes sharply to keep a single tear from escaping. It stings. You steady your breaths to try and sound dignified as you say "is… is this what you thought of me?" 

You can hear her gulp. "I mean… it's what I thought of me. And I guess what you should have too. I mean, you just saw me, right? In all of my fuckin' glory?" 

"Why are you so afraid of me?" You demand. 

She doesn't respond but she meets your eyes. She's a little shocked at what she sees, and honestly, she kind of should be. You're not usually this fiery, stereotypes of redheads be damned. You usually try to keep your cool, but she's broken you without even knowing that she could. 

"I try," you seethe. "So hard, okay? So hard to keep from, like…" You're not sure, but her eyes are on you. "I  _ never  _ hated you for who you were, okay? Even the parts you hate. They're fine by me, like, you know, we're fucking human. But here's what I hate. All right?" You steal another chip from yourself. "Why do you always act like I'm gonna fucking judge you?" 

" _ Because _ I was afraid you thought them. Because I thought them." She admits this with more confidence than she's had all night. Laying her sins out seems to be the thing she's never hesitated at.

"And why do you act like my word's law?" 

"I think you know why." 

You stop cold and have to catch yourself from falling apart. Because you do. And it hurts. It hurts because it'll always be more than you can offer, no matter how you feel. 

Teeth gritted, you say "I  _ never  _ hated you, Mynah. Never. I never thought you were less. I never thought you were bad. I never thought that you were less than the sum of your parts. Even when you fell apart. Even when you had bad days. I can't-" you jerk your hand out. "Do you know how much it pisses me off to know that you spent the entire time waiting for me to go off on you? I gave you  _ everything I had  _ because you were my best friend and deserved it. Okay?" 

She doesn't speak. She doesn't look like she's in speaking shape. This isn’t just a game anymore, and she doesn’t have any excuses. She’s listening in fear. 

"I know it wasn't much," you continue like you're not crying, not begging her for mercy like she's the goddess you have to pray to (like how she sees you) "I know it wasn't everything you needed. And I know that I… can't be here for you." You hate saying it aloud, but you're not about to lie. She closes her eyes, but a tear leaks out and she nods. 

"But I cared, Mynah. I swear I do." Pulling a chip from your pocket like it proves your point and pointing at her: "Why else would I try to get your ass down here?" 

"I mean, anyone could have taken you up," she points out. "You didn't single me out." 

"Then where is everyone else?" 

It goes quiet. Her eyes widen, then shrink. She looks around with her hand as a visor and you wanna tell her to knock it off until you realize that she's dead, dead serious. 

"I don't know," she says, mystified. "Emm, where  _ is  _ everyone? I'm…” As if whispering a dirty secret: “You're a fucking  _ celebrity _ ." 

"Don't act so surprised." For one, you're not exactly paparazzi-stalking-the-bar type famous. They'll decide to not meet you and wait until you perform and only know you as some singer deity that they distantly stan or some shit. For another… "I knew you'd be the only one to show, you know?" 

"But  _ why? _ " 

"Because…" you sigh. "Because I just know you, Mynah." 

She meets your eyes with fear, as it to say  _ what are you doing to me?  _ There's a hint of wonder in them that turns you sour. You don't get it. You don't get why she fears you. Why she loves you. Why she doesn't do better for herself.

Then she sobs. Once, then too many.

"I just missed you, Emmy. So fucking, so fucking much. Girl, you have no idea how much I missed you. And I don't, I don't think you ever will." 

Maybe the crux of the rift between you two is how you could try your heart out and never understand just how much she misses you.

She's lost her visage to a consuming wave of tears. "I miss so many people, Emmy. And all my life I'll miss people. But I miss you the most." 

She clears her throat with a guilty shaky laugh. "Now you see why I needed to get drunk!" she says half-jokingly. Forcefully clearing snow from the railing: "I don't wanna carry this shit.  _ You  _ get to deal with it." She bows her head. "Jesus. I just…" She looks at you. "I'm gonna need a chip. I gotta fucking settle." 

You reach into your pocket. This coat is gonna need a wash. "Take several," you say, holding a few out. “They're yours."

She takes your hand as she accepts them. You like her considerate touch. Then, it's gone as she eats the chips in her hands, delicately picking at them like the Mynah-Bird that she is. She seems to be thinking of what to say as she does, not speaking until the last of them is gone. 

"You really fuckin' said shit," she says in awe. 

"Yeah." You're oddly guilty. You never chew her out. 

"It's okay," she responds. "It really is.”

“Don’t just say that.”

“I  _ mean  _ it,” she insists. “I think… I needed that. I didn’t consider that… you know, I didn’t consider how hard it is to see outside of me. And… I’m sorry that I never really considered what it was like for you."

You just nod. You realize that she didn’t, and that hurts, but you think that it’ll stop now. “I’m just glad you know.” 

She ducks her head out of the parka she's wearing. Snow hits the top of her head, mixing gracelessly into her brown hair, but she doesn't seem to mind all that much. 

Then: “I wanna believe that this all means something, Emmeline.” 

The fact that she- possibly for the first time ever- called you Emmeline alerts you to something being more than it is. Yet that’s all you know. "That what does?" you ask, confused.

Mynah shrugs. "I guess… I guess it's internal. I can't really explain it." 

"Can you try?" 

She looks at you. She doesn't look like half of the mess that she feels like. "It just…" 

Her hands empty, devoid even of gloves, she raises it to catch a snowflake. It actually looks kind of smooth.

Not that you could tell her that.

"It’s cathartic, I guess."

\---

"You're not driving yourself home, you dumbass." 

She shrugs. Her drinks stayed at two but she's still not in driving shape. Still, she insists "It's fine. I don't live too far away or I wouldn't have shown." 

"You totally would have, and that's the scary part." You grab her keys out of her hand. Take-charge mom friend Emmeline has mostly been shelved, but she does not gather dust. "You seriously were going to drink and drive? What the hell, girl?" 

"I didn't want to bug you." 

"I can believe that," you sigh. 

"Sorry." 

"Don't apologize to me. Unless you'd have hit me with your car. In which case, it's a good goddamn thing I'm driving, isn't it?" 

She swallows. "Yeah, like… I wouldn't wanna hurt anyone. It's just hard to forget that it isn't…" She digs money out of her wallet. "Just me, I guess." 

"You're not going to get hurt either," you insist. "And I already said I'm paying the tab." 

"I can-" 

You give her a look that says that she better not. She puts her wallet back and drops the money into her purse. "Thanks, Emm." 

You smile. She looks better now, well, for someone still a little wrecked. She follows you into the bar as you set a few bills on the counter. She sneaks a few dollars into the tip jar, and you elect not to stop her.

At least that's more time that the dork spends not driving. 

You guide her by the hand like a toddler, not that she resists after you do. When you two get to her car, you let her go, but she wanders to the driver’s side until you give her a look, hands on your hips. She looks around and realizes where she is before sheepishly walking to her passenger side. 

“Better,” you confirm. 

Her car isn’t too bad. Not really noteworthy, but you didn’t expect her to drive a stonemason's car. It’s an early 2000s Camry that she seems to think is more annoying than it is when it takes a few minutes to heat up in the snow and you have to wait for the engine. Sighing, splayed across the backseat: “I didn’t think really any of this shit through, to be honest. After you sent out that post, I was just, I didn’t think, really. It just happened.”

You cross your legs in the driver’s seat. “We’re not keeping anyone waiting, are we?”

“Cats are inside,” she responds. “I had to chase them back in when they tried to wander out. Little bastards.”

“Shoulda let them freeze to death,” you joke.

She snorts. “I’d let me freeze to death first.”

You’d laugh more if you were sure that she was joking. “No one else?”

“No one else.”

You want to mention how it looked like she had a girlfriend on one of her Insta shots, but that was a while ago so you leave it alone. Besides, you don’t want to give her any indication that you live vicariously through her.

It goes quiet. You reply too slowly “well, at least we can feel better about taking so long for the car to warm up.” 

“Yeah. Yeah.”

You don’t talk for a couple of minutes. You spend the time cracking your knuckles and she spends it legs-splayed against her entire seating area, cramped up in the limited space. Mynah’s not particularly tall as much as she is scarily skinny, but she is really throwing her limited height around. You smirk to yourself and release her seat, hands between her legs as you pull down on the lever. She’s surprised at first until she realizes that she’s scooting back and your hand is gone. 

“Swear to God,” she breathes. After she shakes off surprise: “But thanks.”

“That’s what I’m here for. Got a radio?” 

She nods. “I, uh, even got a BlueTooth. You got your own tunes… shit, they’re probably better than the radio.”

“I try,” you respond as you connect your phone. Several options pop up, and you furrow your brow reading them. “Look,” you start. “I don’t wanna assume which one it is…”

She seems to realize something and groan-giggles. “Yeah, yeah. That, uhm… that one.”

You click the option  _ Howling-Ass Cryptid Motherfucker  _ and eventually wait for it to turn on. When it does, you cast another playful look of scorn at her. She starts to cackle and squirms as though tickled. You lose focus on yourself and your objective until you press play on your own Spotify. 

“What’s your address?” you ask her. 

“In the GPS.” The windshield wipers follow the beat of the song so perfectly. That never happens. You look at the GPS and discern that she was telling the truth; it’s just over a mile away. The car seems warm enough, so you pull out of the lot. 

“Been a while since I drove,” you admit. 

“You ain’t missing much.”

“I dunno. This feels weirdly nice.” You see yourself frowning in the side mirror. “I missed it.”

Mynah scoffs. “If you insist.”

Neither of you two speaks until after the first verse of your song. Part of the song sounds like noisy windshield wipers. “Sorry about that,” she says. “Thought I got that fixed recently en-”

You shake your head. “It’s the song. Listen.”

As the singer goes again, it’s more audible the more you focus on it. “Trippy,” she says. “Did they actually record fuckin’ windshield wipers?”

You shrug. “It’s called  _ Jupiter 4 _ , so I figured they just fucked around with a keyboard named that.” Mynah just nods, as if that makes sense. “I don’t know for sure, though,” you clarify. “I’ve never actually been really smart in actually making the music. I write good lyrics and think up good beats and I can sing, but everything else, like… I’ve never really thought I’d be in the place to learn. You know?” 

She nods again. “It’ll probably be something you gotta learn down the road.”

You make a right turn. “Yeah, probably. If I’d have known my life was going this way I sure wish I studied for it though. Not poured so much time and money into something I wasn’t going to pursue.”

She looks at you. Well, after she leans up; apparently you tilted the seat backward. “Do you think that… all that medical stuff isn’t for you?”

You slow down. “I, uhm…” You sigh. This is going to either be a secret or the most obvious thing you’ve ever said. “I liked it. And I kind of wish I could get back to it, you know? But I wasn’t making any progress there in New York and I was kind of desperate to, like, not go broke. And this whole singing thing, like, built up, but like…” On a straightaway, you focus on the road ahead and drum your fingers on the steering wheel. “It wasn’t what I imagined.”

“O-oh.”

There’s a lot that you could tell her. That even in moderate forms, fame and fortune did not solve everything. Though you did love to sing beforehand- as did Mynah love your singing- it was a distraction that you only polished as a hobby. Your life was supposed to be dutiful and productive and helpful and normal, and you were damn sure supposed to keep your Mynah-Bird in it. 

“I kind of wish I was able to,” you admit. “Be a vet or whatever. You know… helping animals would be dope.”

“S’that it?” 

You sigh. “Look, you know, I know I sound like an asshole. I fell into a life that people wanted, you know, and one where they’ll miss me if I wasn’t there. And I should be grateful, I guess. But, like, I don’t…” You sigh again. “I don’t know, Mynah.”

“I guess not cause that’s not what I meant.”

You’re happy that you’re reaching a side street so you can stop and look at her. She’s staring out the windshield before she notes “We aren’t going anywhere.”

“Sorry, I just…”

You start the car again. 

“I just had to think of what you meant. And I guess I don’t know.”

“I just meant, is that all why you wanted to go into medicine? Is to be a vet? Because that’s not all of why I turned out the way I did. I wanted to, you know, build… but I wanted to build my life around that too. And I’m not very, like, good at it or a whole lot would be going better, but, like, I know that I want that kind of stuff. And you never, like, talked about it and I felt kinda silly telling you that I was gonna, like, get a nice house in the middle of nowhere, which,” She gestures to the unkempt residential area where the only nowheres are spacious backyards. “Didn’t really happen. Or how much I felt like the kid when I was talking about how I’d rather settle down and be a wife that builds gnarly shit. That’s the dream for me. And I guess sometimes I think it’s not much until I realize that I still haven’t done it.”

“It’s your dream,” you insist. The GPS tells you that you’re near to her home. You’ll probably go somewhere public and call a cab after you drop her off. “Your dream’s important.”

"I don’t know," she admits. "I think I just, like… wanna be part of a dream where I can, like, share it with someone. What I do. Who the hell’s a Mynah-Bird, you know?” You fail to avoid blushing but she doesn’t look. “Being lonely… I've always hated it. And I always thought of myself in the context of others. With ties. As… you know, more than a memory. I wanted them to see me."

You try to think of an appropriate response but you have so few. Mynah says she hasn’t figured it out, but you’ll take knowing how to go over wherever you are, a wispy girl who falls victim to the winds of life and how, through various forms, they push her around. Why does Mynah keep acting like you know better than her when, in the worst-case scenario, you’re both fucked and she’s just a little less fucked than your glamorous disaster?

You pull into her driveway. It’s a long walk from the street, which itself is a long walk away from the thoroughfare. Good thing you have a knife and mace. 

“Guess you gotta go, Emmy?” 

You don’t respond immediately. Gods, how far is your hotel anyways? Not that you can’t afford the cab fare. You just don’t think you can stop thinking right now and the sooner you and a packed bowl reunite, the better. 

Maybe it’ll make this hurt less. 

“Emmeline.”

You’re still not used to her saying your full name. When you look at her, she’s already risen up but hasn’t unbuckled. Her breaths are shallow and you wait for tears with such short breaths of your own that you forget to answer her. 

"I'm gonna relapse," she warns. Then, as if defeated: "I already did."

You balk and nearly honk. "What?! Uhm,  _ how?  _ Do you not drink?" 

She shakes her head. "No, not like that, it's not about that. I just…" 

"Mynah-Bird…" It's natural. For the first time in ages, you're not trying to get a rise out of her. In fact, the nickname is your life raft. 

"I thought I'd go without missing you too badly," she admits. "I did for so long. But I can te…" She sighs. "It's back, you know? I do. I really do. I'm going to miss you. And…" 

She doesn't continue, but she needs to. You place your hand on hers gently. She holds it, stroking the knuckle like she's the one who needs to comfort you. Like she won't be whole until you are. 

"I-I love you, you know?" 

"I love you too." 

She sighs like it's not the same. "At least you know when to quit." 

You don't. You have to stop thinking of your little Mynahbird to stand a ghost of a chance. But she's always thought you were better than her when being as emotional as her reminds you that there's still a piece of humanity that you're grounded in. 

"Guess I should go, Emm," she breathes. She's leaning against the window. "Emmy. Emmeline. Emma." 

You clasp your hands over the steering wheel and steal glances at her.  _ Give me strength, oh God or whom-the-fuck-ever. Whatever deity. Or Sappho. Fuck, what am I, eighteen? I don't know, just somebody give me an idea. _

No one does. You're on your own.

So you just pull her away from the window by her left hand and closer to you. She lets you with a sigh that's content and hates herself. You kind of wish you could make it all go away but keep that thought to yourself. You think at this point she realizes half-measures aren't the best she should hope for.

You kind of missed this. You always did. Just this… the opportunity of being able to just relax, let go and be a girl for a while.  _ Being a girl  _ never had a clear definition to it, you realize, but there’s something… free about the idea. Maybe it just means  _ being me _ . 

“It’s okay,” you tell her. She hums some sort of wordless disagreement, so you repeat “It’s okay,” as if it’s more this time. As if you can say it so much that it becomes okay.

Maybe you can make it okay for right now. 

Maybe that’s all you can do. 

You two settle to the edges of your seats, the engine on to keep warm. Maybe in a more conscious state, you’d offer to pay her gas and she’d tell you to knock it, and maybe in a less paralyzingly self-aware state, you two would share a seat and cuddle as the music kept playing while you sang every lyric that you knew and guessed the rest. Instead, you’re where you are, sitting towards each other, holding one hand, and you listen to the songs and her lethargic, off-rhythm breaths, and occasionally you reach enough in your voice to smoothly sing a lyric of  _ Tommy’s Party  _ that you remember, one that says  _ and now she’s knowing you, just like I used to.  _ And it’s not enough, and she shudders at the idea of you only knowing her in the past tense, having  _ used to,  _ but the right lyric to communicate that you’d be there forever never passes through your ears. 

And you are once more just a wisp of a girl, going wherever the wind takes her, powerless and only able to enjoy the ride. It isn’t about the words you sing, it’s about being blown into the right ones. Letting others write the right ones for you when you can write lyrics just fine as well. 

“I guess I should turn in, Emmy?”

“Do you want to?”

She starts to shake her head and stops just after you notice. “You’ve got to go do things tomorrow. I don’t…” The more she talks, the more her voice is reduced to air. “Wanna keep you.”

“Mynah…” 

She’s right. She’s so right. Goddamn it. 

Even though if you asked her to keep you, you know she would.

And you kind of wish that you would.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s just life, you know?”

And then the two of you stay for ten more minutes. You clutch her hand and rest it under your chin, across your chest, eyes wide and unseeing. The latest song needs a forest fire and you lose yourself fantasizing about the things in your life burning and starting it over from scratch with your own resources and emotions. 

"You good?" she mumbles drowsily.

You really hate your habit of crying when you're confused. You try to keep yourself from crying on her wrist. She says "It's okay, you know?" 

You bristle a little at… some idea where she wants you to be vulnerable that may not exist. Maybe it would make you appear softer and she'd like that, but maybe you're just not great at being vulnerable in a way that she can understand and digest. Mynah knows who she is, just not what she needs. And you can't mold yourself to be the type of girl that she needs. You're not able to and you're not gonna waste time trying- hers or yours. Even if sometimes that's what you want, you've spent so long being different to the Emmeline inside you that you can't do that anymore. You need to be you.

Whoever that is.

You just find yourself singing the next song. It's the one you were whistling as the sun set earlier. It's one thing to know the rhythm, but breathily singing the words  _ you must have been looking for me, sending smoke signals  _ feels like an acknowledgment that the singer had feelings to communicate. She mumbles at the words even though she doesn't know every lyric by heart like you do. Just as well; she doesn't seem like the type who wants to live at the Holiday Inn and watch TV while someone else makes the beds. You're not either, but you're not sure what you are right now, and that's your closest refuge.

When the song ends, you ask her “What do I do?” It means a lot more than it sounds. 

She thinks. Starts to speak, then stops. Starts, then stops. Almost vocalizes the next time- all she says is that she’s sorry about that. You wonder what suggestions her mind is turning down. Maybe they’re good ones. Maybe they feel better than they are. 

You then realize that it may have just been one suggestion that took her multiple times to say. 

“We leave now, or we never will.” 

You sigh, swiftly shutting the BlueTooth off. The memory of now is a poem riddled with asterisks. The fantasy of everything burning to the ground just makes you wonder what things you are so good at that you could successfully live like a human being that means to. 

The two of you scramble out of the car and you lock the door. Walking the path to the front door of her house is trickier since she’s drunk and your flats don’t fit super well, but you don’t trip and fall. You hit the door and hand her back the keys, pressing them against her chest. 

“I’ll talk to you again soon,” you insist.

“Thanks.” She hates that she doesn’t believe you. 

“I mean it. I really… like, Mynah, whatever happens, I want to talk to you. I want to try to really be friends again.”

She looks at you with eyes that beg for mercy, that begs you to step on her hands and let her fall off of the cliff that she’s been on for so, so, so long. Is it selfish to give her hope that doesn’t guarantee anything?

She reaches towards you in a hug and you accept. Next thing you know, there are a set of lips alongside your head, near the last traces of old and unpatterned facial hair. “You’d better mean it,” she threatens in your ear. “Because I don’t want to wait if I don’t have to.”

It would be very selfish to give her hope that doesn’t guarantee anything.

"Okay," you whisper tearfully. "Okay."

So it looks like you’ll have to commit. 

“Goodnight, Mynahbird. Sleep well, okay?” 

She lets you go. She finally seems to accept that you can’t commit with your words. That this is the best that you can do. You hope that she knows that it’s enough. 

“Take care of yourself,” she responds. 

She’s surrendered too easily, but what can you do but prove her wrong?

You linger by the doorway like a fledgling sapphic college student at the edge of something she thinks she needs and does not have the ability to grasp. At times like this, the wind interests you. The wooden bench she made. The weeds. It's a way to avoid saying that you just want to be here for real. 

You grit your teeth, squeak  _ bye,  _ and walk without looking back. 

\---

Maybe you’re forgetting. 

The massively delayed plane doesn’t take off before the sun sets again, as it has for tens of thousands of times. While you don’t often see sunsets through your plane windows, it’s a nice sight- especially when first-class gives you private compartments and you feel like splurging. Even though New York City is not too far a flight away from where you are, you’re still exhausted and you plan to sleep until you land. You were hoping to wake up to the sunset and not fall asleep to it, but that’s life. Besides, it’s still a view all your own. 

That’s a type of sunset you forget, but it isn’t the one you’re thinking of. 

Your thoughts are hazy as you take it in. It’s all your own, but strangely lonely. You’ve seen so many sunsets alone. The ones you haven’t, you never took in with anyone else. Either they didn’t appreciate it or you didn’t. A miscommunication of appreciation is how so many of your relationships seem to go- no wonder they’re so shallow. 

You just can’t stand to see this sunset alone.

You hastily get your phone out and turn the camera on like the plane is gonna take off now (when it should have hours ago, but you digress). It’s automatically on selfie mode, such is your way. You press a button to flip how it faces and aim it out the window at the sunset. It’s nice because sunsets are, but blurry. So you frame the window in the shot, which at least makes the blur artistic. It makes it look like a place that you are without you having to insert yourself into the shot to beg people to notice that you are in fact leading your life. 

You want to post it on Insta and hope she sees it, but you don’t once you realize that the rest of your followers are not important in this case. You instead find her profile, not at all updated since your visit. It gives you a rush that your visit was your little secret, but the idea of you being so immaterial that you won’t appear on her wall, in her life that you know, makes you immeasurably sad. You’ve been tagged in a few photos by people you’ve never met beforehand or even seen. Far be it from you to demand she does that for you but… it could be nice if you could earn that right. 

She said that your music made you eternal. That it was forever.

You don’t want to live forever. You just want to be remembered.

You message the sunset to her directly. She reads your message in less than a minute. You realize that you forgot to put a caption on it and frantically start to type. 

_ About to Take Off- Sunset Lovely! _

She doesn’t start typing until you do. 

_ hey there _

_ thats at seatac right _

_ That I am.  _

Still.

_ cool cool _

It’s too quiet for a bit, just long enough to overthink what you have, haven’t, and could say. Overhead, the pilot or whoever says that the plane is going to take off in three minutes. You balk. Oh, so  _ now  _ it is. Just in time for you to freak out a little and  _ not  _ sleep at all, no matter what music you play or how effective your travel blindfold is. 

Then you get a photo back. 

It’s of the same sunset- she’s even facing south, as the window portrays your sunset. Though looking at her photo- taken over her workbench with scattered wooden beams and balsa scraps and a half-crafted birdhouse- it certainly doesn’t seem just like yours. 

Sure enough:

_ you sent me yours so i sent u mine _

You snicker like you aren’t wholly touched. 

_ Lmao _

_ I appreciate it, you fucking goofball! _

_ thanks for sending me yours, i didn’t expect it _

That’s probably true enough. She didn’t, and you can’t say you blame her. You can’t say you really have a concrete reason that isn’t in some ways very selfish. You just aren’t sure how selfish it is to want someone else to be happy. 

Maybe it just feels selfish because you aren’t sure how to make her happy.

You just kinda hope you hit it. 

_ I figured I could at least share this with you, you know? Didn’t want to make it so I saw it alone. _

_ don’t worry emm _

_ you’re not _

Your heart hastens at the idea of something not being alone. Maybe that’s the type of sunset that you forgot.

The plane takes off, and you don’t finish your reply before it does. As expected, the WiFi is extremely spotty unless you pay more, and you’re too tired to put it to economical usage. So you just stare out the window until the airplane takes you above the clouds, above everything, and the sunset disappears and the world does and you drift into a sleepy state, one that isn’t asleep but is just enough to feel nice, to leave you with nothing but yourself as you are. 

Occasionally, you try to think of what to say next.


End file.
